


Renfield

by ChromeHoplite



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Foreplay, M/M, Masturbation, Power Bottom Ciel, Priest Sebastian, Top Sebastian, Vampire AU, vampire ciel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromeHoplite/pseuds/ChromeHoplite
Summary: Thou shalt not be consumed by another, mind, blood and soul, was not one of the ten commandments decreed by God, but it should have been. When Father Michaelis is forced to leave the comfort of his home and parish in Inverness to relocate amongst the filth of high society in London, he finds himself obsessively drawn to the beautiful boy that lingers by the cemetery gates at dusk. Soon, every thought, every compulsion is motivated by one thing: to be made his.It’s not love.It’s madness.Some commandments are too difficult to abide by.





	Renfield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tragicd0ll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicd0ll/gifts).



> This is my contribution for Summer Sebaciel Week 2018 for the Mythical Creatures category. It was initially supposed to be a one-shot, but it got away from me a bit. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. <3

The first time Sebastian saw the boy, it was from across a cemetery. It was a bleak October evening and it had rained all day. The earth that had been turned over to dig the hole where Miss Elizabeth Midford was to be interred was soggy, wreaked of rotting leaves and traces of sewage. _Unbefitting for the daughter of an aristocrat,_ he overheard a plump redhead mutter. 

He would have to talk to Baldroy about the stench, see if it was common; other than a brief introduction to the gravedigger, Sebastian hadn’t had the time to sit down to talk to any of the church employees. He’d yet to even unpack since his arrival that morning from Inverness. 

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed,” he spoke monotonously squinting at the small figure looming between the iron-wrought cemetery gates and a open carriage so dark that it seemed a shadow at dusk. “... We therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

At the head of her casket, from six feet above, Sebastian made a sign of the cross. If those in attendance were crying, as soil was thrown over the rosewood veneer of Elizabeth’s coffin, they made no show of it. The mens’ stoic faces stared blankly at the scenery, trees whose branches were heavy with rain or else the two new mounds of musty earth just beyond the gravestones to Sebastian’s left. The women all wore veils over their faces, but the tell-tale shaking shoulders or sniffling sounds that normally accompanied grief were also absent. 

These London folk lacked proper emotion, the young Scottish priest thought; it wasn’t like back home, where people properly mourned their dead. No sooner than a thin, superficial layer of dirt covered the casket, it started raining again and without so much a warning of rolling thunder, an unforgiving torrent of water fell from the sky. Depending on where the pelted raindrops landed, a cacophonous symphony could be heard; it pinged off the weathered gravestones, it rustled the withering leaves still clinging to their stems in the large oaks, crackled against the pebbled path and beat hard against the obsidian umbrellas that bloomed like a garden of darkest dahlias. The small crowd that had gathered to bid the young woman farewell scuttled away, complaining about their attire, the lateness of the hour and their dinners turning cold. It was the most sentiment they’d shown. 

The boy at the gates moved aside for them, holding his cape in hand, careful it did not touch the passersby as though they carried a plague. They seemed to bother him more than the dampness that was absorbed into his perfectly tailored black garments. He did not shiver, nor did he complain as they clung to his small frame, though they did give the impression that he had been doused in iron gall ink. 

Once the cemetery was clear of occupants, save the priest, a gust of wind blew the storm cloud along, replacing the pitch darkness of the sky with a grayish somber light echoed by the waning moon overhead. 

The boy walked through the gates, intricate cane at his left side as he closed the distance between them. Under his top hat, adorned with a navy satin ribbon, his slate hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck and cascaded over his shoulder, curling subtly at the ends. He looked like a living doll, crafted by the world’s most gifted maker. His skin was flawless and creamy porcelaine in its tone and looked every bit as yielding to the touch as his perfect pink petaled lips. The rouge he wore accentuated his petite aristocratic nose and high-set cheekbones and though it made him appear haughty, it did not take away from the beauty of his heart-shaped face. 

Sebastian’s eyes had been fixed on the boy’s dark, sullen gaze, a captivating deep shade of blue as of yet named by even artists, when he realized he had been caught staring. He lowered his regard contritely, felt blood, hot and fitful creeping to the surface of his face, but he couldn’t bear to avert his eyes longer than seconds, the boy was too compelling, too bewitching. When he looked up again, the young aristocrat cocked his head coyly and gave him a tantalizing half-smirk. 

Wordlessly, the beautiful creature removed a single, solitary, long-stemmed snow-white lily from the depths of his overcoat and despite having been tucked away, the flower remained unharmed, its funnel-shaped spathe exquisite, its fragrance but a faint note to offset the scent of soggy London town. The boy uttered a psalm, in Latin no less, bowed his head solemnly, kissed the bloom and let it fall onto the muddied resting place of Elizabeth Midford. He gave a curt nod to the priest, and as he retreated, Sebastian watched him go with longing making itself known in his gut, a subtle stirring in his trousers and a bewildered expression on his face. It was not the boy climbing into this carriage without the assistance that usually came with such a luxury that confused the priest, nor was it that the carriage itself seemed to lack a proper driver as it pulled away from the cemetery, but because the popular psalm that spoke of beauty and innocence had been reworded to include an apology.

***

The next time he saw the boy was four days later, when Elizabeth’s older brother was buried next to her. A rumour swept the upper echelons of the bourgeoisie, stating that a certain cook was unknowingly spreading an ailment among the families for which she worked and had inadvertently poisoned the Midford heirs. Less than a week later, another of member of high society was laid to rest, and another, and another.

Each time the boy waited until the graveyard was clear. Always his behaviour was the same: he offered a solitary bloom to the deceased along with a recited prayer and his remorse. Always, he was alluring, had a dignified air and confidence about him that far surpassed his years, and when he regarded Sebastian condescendingly with something akin to amusement and pity, the priest flushed scarlet. 

Despite frequenting each evening funeral presided by Father Michaelis, the boy never came to Sunday Mass. Sebastian never inquired about him for fear that he might sound too interested, might come off as some of his brothers in the church did when it came to young men. This was likely a test of his faith, of his loyalty towards God and his parish, a gentle reminder as to why he was sent to a convent at the ripe age of twelve by his parents. _Depraved, flit, invert, homo_ … his father had said God would cleanse the sin right out of him. It was until his arrival in London, at thirty-one years of age, that he had begun to doubt whether it had worked at all. 

On the evening of the sixth burial, which fell on All Saints Day, none but the boy showed to say goodbye to the recently departed. Finnian did not fit in with the other deceased for which the boy had brought flowers; he was not of noble birth, had no worthwhile prospects or claims to success, but he was every bit as dashing in death as the others would have been in life. Sebastian wondered who had gone to all the trouble to afford him a decent lot on the cemetery grounds and a beautifully embellished coffin, but to then not attend the service. 

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” the boy asked him, as Sebastian opened his mouth to utter customary words of welcome. His voice reminded the priest of a rich confection, but not necessarily the over-sweet, tooth-rotting kind children were wont to enjoy; rather, it was luxurious and soothing, held a hint of the hypnotic, in the way one often lost themselves to enjoying such a delightful treat. 

“What’s a shame?” Sebastian asked self-consciously, trying his damndest to elevate his English and mask the hint of accent that often slipped out when he was nervous.

“That one cannot harvest the remaining years lost to an early death. Finnian was but twenty-four, he should have lived at least another forty years.” The boy spoke his words as if they were fact, and his superior tone convinced the priest of their truth. “Ahh… but he did leave a beautiful corpse.”

Sebastian opened his Bible where he had bookmarked it with a red silken string; he did not trust that he would be able to call the various passages he had recited for years to memory when the boy’s eyes were on him so insistently. “It does seem rather wasteful.”

“I knew you would see it my way, Father Michaelis.” The boy smiled, and there was something knowing in the way his lips curled. Did he have this spellbinding effect on everyone or did he simply enjoy toying with weaker men? “We might as well proceed, it seems Finnian had no relations or friends.”

The child should not have had this kind of authority over a grown man, yet he did. And so Sebastian pressed on, read a scripture, skipped the hymns and as Finnian was practically a nobody, forwent the formal reading of his obituary. The priest was firm in his resolve of avoiding the boy’s eyes when he’d meant to ask him if he would like to say a few words about the dead. Instead, his gaze fell upon the aristocrat’s fitted frock coat, and how tightly cinched it was at the waist. He never realized how incredibly small the boy was, how breakable he seemed. Sebastian was sure that if he were to force the boy’s chest flat onto Finnian’s gravestone, to kick his feet apart and hold onto the slight swell of his hips as he raised his arse to his liking, that it might allow the clergyman to imagine it was a delicate woman he was defiling. It would still be sinful, but not to the extent of envisioning a _male_ youth at least half his age. 

The boy cleared his throat and used his cane to lift Sebastian’s chin up to meet his knowing, fixed stare. He was grinning; wore a self-satisfied expression on his face as his walking stick smeared the priest’s face with dirt. Sebastian couldn’t find it in himself to care that he was being treated so disrespectfully. He was positively enchanted, his heart thumped madly in his expanding chest and he blurted the first thing that came to his mind on the exhale to distract from the growing bulge behind his cassock. 

“No flower today?” 

The boy shook his head. “Finnian was my gardener. I am afraid that I am not very good at keeping things alive and since his passing, the blooms in my greenhouse have gone the way he did.” He peered down regretfully at the mahogany casket, and Sebastian could not be sure whether the look was meant for the young man about to be buried or the failure of the aristocrat’s flowers to thrive. 

“Your family’s gardener you mean?” The priest inquired uncomfortably, his engorged member pushing and pulsing against his attire’s fabric. He worried it would be noticeable and willed the boy to look away so that he could adjust himself. 

If the boy was not a mind reader, then he read bodies beautifully. Could he hear Sebastian’s increased heart rate? Or the way his breathing became unsteady with every passing breath? 

The small imp did eventually turn away from the clergyman, he even put distance between them by walking towards the adjacent headstone. Just as the priest gave a sigh of appeasement, just as his hand found his own cock to push it aside and relieve the pressure, the boy looked at him over his shoulder with a wicked glint in his eyes as he bent lecherously over the grave to reach for flowers that the visitors of Mr. Charles Grey had left on his tombstone. 

The boy stood on the tips of his toes, gasping teasingly as he stretched and reached towards the discarded wilting blooms. Sebastian’s eyes traced the back of the boy’s slender legs, and up the supple silhouette of his rear. It took all of his restrain to not grip his length tighter in his fist, to find himself behind the boy and rut into his pert little backside the way he wanted. 

Too soon, or not soon enough, the boy straightened, blood red rose in hand and gazed condescendingly at the priest. “ _My_ gardener. Not my family’s. I was seventeen when I inherited the title of Earl. Did you think me a child, Father Michaelis? Or did you _hope_? I know men of the cloth fancy such innocent delights. You would hardly be the first.” 

The boy, or rather, young man, seemed to contemplate the rose, fingered the petals individually as though he were counting them, then deliberately pricked his forefinger upon a stubborn thorn. He drew the smallest of breaths between his teeth and brought the injured digit to his face. 

Sebastian was transfixed. He’d wanted to vehemently refute the Earl’s former accusation. Of course he’d never been attracted to children before, and deep down, his subconscious must have known the youth to be of adult age. In the end, it mattered little; he could not deny that he was intrigued, drawn to the vexing little thing. In the eyes of the Church, his lust might have been better understood had the Earl been a Countess, but only slightly; his urge to fill and fuck was still a sin given his vows. They were all varying degrees of immorality and disgrace by which he would be tried come Judgement Day. 

And yet the priest made himself a martyr, waiting there, choosing not to turn from temptation, and watched as the beautiful youth slid his pretty, pink tongue along the length of his finger, his eyes never leaving Sebastian’s. The Earl kept it there, soft and pliant against the small hurt and then took it between his pouted lips. He gave it a wet suck that made a kissing sound and when it came out, still glistening with minimal spit that shone in the moonlight, a drop of blood still remained. 

The young man extended his arm between them, and offered the priest his finger, as though it were a gift, a privilege. 

Sebastian heard the blood rushing in his ears, singing and throbbing to get out and as he took hold of the aristocrat's wrist, he grasped one thing with awful clarity: to lose himself to the boy would be something irredeemable. He fished a bland handkerchief with his initials stitched in red at the corner from his pocket and dabbed the injury lightly until it bled no more. The soiled linen was folded and hidden away on his person.  
Sebastian swallowed his primal urges and gave temporary control to his piety in order to play the part in which he’d been given little choice. He read the closing benediction from his Bible as a means of concluding the abbreviated ceremony; as night was inching its way, he held the book close to his nose to make out the words of the obscure prayer that was selected by the benefactor who had kindly paid for his services. Upon the final _amen_ he shut the large tome to find himself standing alone in the company of his dead. 

He passed Baldroy along the ill-lit path that led to the rectory, both of them trudging in opposite directions, the gravedigger to his work, and he to his isolation. Leaning against the chair that sat near his entryway in the modest kitchen, he heaved a heavy sigh and unfastened his hobnailed boots. He was hungry, but without an appetite for proper food or drink. The cassock and the cincture about his waist had been discarded in the hall by the time he reached his minimalist bedroom . He was hot… no feverish, faint and reckless with unfulfillment, his clerical collar felt too snug, stangulating, as did his trousers. 

He threw the window open, let the cool November breeze wash over his neck and exposed chest, yanking the buttons apart harshly with his newfound temper and letting them fall onto the floor. In his haste, he fumbled with his bottoms, pushing them down, stepping on the hem to facilitate their removal, fisting the quilt on his mattress where his Bible lay. His trousers caught on his erection and he growled his frustration. He fell to his knees, charcoal pants pooling on the floor about his ankle and took his shaft in hand. 

Behind his lids all he saw were eyes of palest blue. Icy but burning. A pull stronger than any vortex, more damaging, more dizzying. He allowed himself to get drawn in, let his blood boil beneath his flesh as his hand moved up along his length and down again. 

He ached for him. To know his name, to curse it as he fucked himself aggressively. To know the earl’s body and how tightly it would wrap itself around his throbbing member: hand and mouth and greedy little hole. To know his sounds, his screaming, his whining, his sobbing as he impaled the small thing unforgivingly, even if he begged the priest to stop. It was his fault after all. For tempting him. For luring him away from his faith. For shattering everything he had worked so hard to overcome. 

He growled, finding no pleasure in his hand. He spat onto the head of his cock and stroked himself faster, screwed his eyes shut, trying to get lost in the wet sound of skin on skin, swearing under his breath as if the earl was there on all fours before him. “Tight little cunt,” he cussed, hair falling into his face as he bowed over, picturing himself abusing the boy’s rear, stuffing himself to the hilt, “deviled whore, spoiled harlot.” 

He was panting now, cock throbbing furiously in his fist as he fully immersed himself in his fantasy of brutally defiling the young man. He fell forward, free hand clutching the fabric on the floor next to him and found the tainted handkerchief. He brought it to his face, buried his nose into it and inhaled the boy’s scent deeply. God help him. He shuddered, moaned as he pumped himself savagely. 

He smoothed the cotton over his cheek and chin, and the dried blood bathed the kerchief anew, soaked through the linen, spread across it in a series of fine lattice-like arteries and left streaks of crimson along his face. He mouthed it, crammed it between his sweat-salted lips like a starved, suckling babe and threw back his head, crying out. Every muscle in his body clenched, every tendon over his arms, chest, back and legs had never been more evident. He came. Hard. Quaking. Body rocking from what felt like his first orgasm. He released his spent cock and hummed with a pleasure he’d never experienced before. Still on his knees, he rest his head against the mattress, instantly craving more despite the satiation coursing through his veins. If the earl could do this to him untouched, what could he do for him in person? 

He could still smell him, like a stain on his skin. Breathless, chest still heaving, he sought the handkerchief again and found it, pearl white, without a trace of the boy’s essence. Internally, he prayed for it to return, even grasped his Bible, hoping it would lend more credence to his plea.

An unexpected slip of crimson poked from between the gilded pages. He pressed a finger to it, opening the Holy Book and found twenty-two wine-coloured rose petals, smudging the print. The sweet smell of decay replaced that of semen and as he pushed the bloom aside, spreading them onto his bed, he read from _Revelations 16:6_ : 

_“For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets, and you have given them blood to drink. It is what they deserve!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @alonealexabluerose on Tumblr for the amazing suggestion. A huge shout out to my fellow _fangbanger_ , @tragicd0ll for all her help and @nerdythangs for her beta!
> 
> I bite. You bleed. Gimme Kudos & Comments so I can feed (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)


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